Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

"You're a good chess player, huh?" said Lucy, oppressed by the silence. "I'm not. I can't play for beans. Where did you learn how?"

The massive head turned, and he looked at her, into her eyes; she felt an actual jolt, and into her mind came the line from the Yeats poem her mother was always quoting, the one about the creature with a gaze blank and pitiless as the sun. Tran sometimes looked at her like that, in moments of distraction, when the kindly persona he had constructed for her benefit fell away, and she looked into more pain and loss than human beings were really designed for. There was nothing of society in it, only the horrible truth of existence. It took all her will to keep her eyes on his. Finally, he said something, a series of honks with most of the consonants stripped out.

I've heard of you, he was saying. You work at the church.

"Yes, Holy Redeemer. Do you go there?"

No. I only come here. I like to play chess. He gives me books. The man drew a deep breath, as if this much language had exhausted him.

You're looking for Canman.

"Yes," she said eagerly. "Do you know where he is?"

The great head nodded twice.

"Will you take me there?"

What do you want with him?

"I'm his friend. I want to help him. We think people are looking for him, the police, and also a policeman who may want to hurt him. We can help him, but we have to find him before they do."

They won't find him.

"They will. They have sweeps of the subways, of the homeless. You know that! They're planning a big one on Wednesday because they think Canman is the bum slasher, and they'll look until they find him. We need to find him first."

He's not in the subways.

"He's not?"

Not in the subways. He's in Rat Alley.

Father Dugan entered the room then, carrying a tray.

"Here's our tea," he said cheerfully. "I see you're getting along."

"Jacob says the Canman's not in the subways."

"Yes," said the priest, "we were discussing that before you arrived. Apparently there's a disused railway tunnel on the West Side that intersects some kind of derelict sewer system. It's sealed off from the tunnel proper, or was. Rat Alley, as they call it down there. Do you know that line from The Waste Land? 'I think we are in rats' alley, where the dead men lost their bones.' No? Jacob must know it, though. Jacob reads a lot of poetry."

"In 'A Game of Chess,'" said Spare Parts.

"Yes," said the priest. "The section of the poem in which the line appears, he means. Yet another strange conflation of art and life." Dugan leaned over as he poured tea into Lucy's cup, caught her eye, and mouthed, "Keep your eyes on me; don't watch him eat."

"Yes, Rat Alley," Father Dugan resumed, "it doesn't appear on the city's maps, not that that's unusual-there're fourteen hundred miles of sewer line under New York, apparently, besides unbelievable numbers of pipes and tubes and ducts of various kinds. This particular one seems to be the place where people go to escape when the tunnels get too cozy. They also toss garbage in there and an occasional corpse."

Lucy was, as instructed, keeping her eyes on Dugan, but she could not similarly restrict her ears. Spare Parts when eating sounded like a large fish trapped in a mud puddle by the retreating tide. These sounds paused, and he said, It's very dangerous. Canman is crazy. I think he'll be dead soon, anyway. He is half in love with easeful death.

"Is he sick again?" Lucy asked, alarmed.

After a horrible slurp, the deep voice went on, I don't know. It doesn't matter because they will get him soon. They get them all in Rat Alley.

"Who will get him? You mean the rats?" With this, Lucy forgot herself and looked at Spare Parts.

He stared back at her. Crumbs and powdered sugar were around his horrible maw, and his thick, purple tongue swooped out to grab them up. He said, There are no rats left in Rat Alley.

Then he stood up and strode over to a pile of cartons full of donated paperbacks. Lucy had expected him to have the lurching walk of a horror-movie monster, but his stride was strong and athletic. He knelt, selected a book, shoved it into a pocket, and left without another word.

Lucy found herself gasping, and Father Dugan chuckled. "Yes, we don't breathe too deeply around Jacob."

"Good Lord!"

"Uh-huh. Stinks like a desert father. What did you think?"

"Of him? Horrible, but not actually scary. He's very hard, but not evil, like an animal. What's his story, do you know?"

"Not much. Bits slip out occasionally. Apparently he was born down there. His mother was an illegal of some kind, and probably not all there upstairs. She made her living… as you would expect. God knows how he survived, but he did. He got big early, which I guess was a blessing. I have no idea how he learned how to read-he certainly never went to school. I found him one night outside, going through the trash, a pile of books that were too messed up to send anywhere, and I invited him in. He's bright-you saw him beat me just now-but not exactly with a human intelligence." Dugan sipped some tea and lit another cigarette. "It makes you count your blessings, doesn't it?"

"Will he help us find Canman?"

"Oh, he already has. Before you got here, he gave me explicit instructions on how to find this Rat Alley. But he wanted to meet you."

"Me?"

"Yes, and no false modesty, please. You have quite the rep among the unhoused. Several instances of miraculous healing have been reported." He wiggled his eyebrows and looked upward.

She giggled and blushed. "Oh, stop it!"

"The pope's been informed."

"No, really… so we're really going down there."

"It looks that way. The sooner, the better. What do your folks think about it?"

"Oh, Dad's going to object, but he always objects. My mother, of course, is fine with it." A pregnant silence. "I should go home."

"I'll walk you out."

At the steps leading up from the church basement he asked, "Still having the visions?"

"Few and far between now, although St. T. nearly got me arrested on a train. The message seems to be to study hard and wait. I guess they're not going to tell me to crown the Dauphin at Reims."

"And a good thing, too." He laughed. "And, Lucy? About this whole business…" He pinched his lips.

She nodded agreement, hugged him good-bye, and trotted off down Mulberry Street. It was dark at this hour, although the street was lit by the windows of shops and galleries. Banners flapped over the centers of culture and commerce. Just past Kenmare, she spotted a familiar figure moving swiftly in the opposite direction.

"David!"

But Grale did not seem to notice her, or anything else. He was walking rapidly, his tattered jacket flapping like one of the gallery banners, an intense and fixed expression on his face. She moved to intercept him, clutched at his sleeve.

At that he stopped and turned to face her. "David, what's the matter? Are you okay? You practically ran over me."

"Oh, sorry." His face went through a peculiar contortion, as if he were painting David Grale onto something else. But there he was again, the kindly, amused eyes, the angelic expression, the lovely mouth curved into a smile. "Sorry, I was just distracted. What are you doing out? Clubbing? Living the high life of the rich?"

"Oh, right, I'm so much in demand at the more exclusive boites. It's my supermodel face and fashion sense. What's up with you?"

His smile faded. "More bad news. They found Doug's body down by the tracks. It's another one. That makes seven. I'm going over there now, see what I can do. He might have effects or relatives who should be informed."

Lucy had an unbidden, uncharitable thought that in this particular case the slasher had done society a favor, followed by a spasm of guilt.